


Small Disasters for Little Crows

by Sarai



Series: Little Crows [1]
Category: Six of Crows Series - Leigh Bardugo
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Family, Gen, Hide and Seek, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Fic, Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-12 07:01:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29006493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarai/pseuds/Sarai
Summary: Jesper borrows his ma's blouse. It's only a matter of time before chaos ensues.Matthias has a nice evening at home with his mamma and little sister.Nina embarks on a wonderful (if imaginary) adventure to escape an afternoon of chores.Kaz scrapes his knee, but he and Jordie won't let Ketterdam get them down.Wylan learns his first musical scales.
Relationships: Colm Fahey & Jesper Fahey, Kaz Brekker & Jordie Rietveld, Marya Hendriks & Wylan Van Eck
Series: Little Crows [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2193399
Comments: 26
Kudos: 24
Collections: Week #1: 10... 9... 8...





	1. Jesper, Age 6

**Author's Note:**

> This is a planned series of one-shots, one for each Crow, which will _hopefully_ be completed by the end of this week's Grishaverse prompt on Saturday!

Jesper Fahey had something very rare: time alone in the house. His ma was on one of her special calls, and his da was fixing the shed, a task Jesper was both “too small” and “not patient enough” to help him. 

Which maybe wasn’t entirely unfair.

Absent supervision, the six-year-old sneaked into his parents’ bedroom. He slid open a drawer, checked the door one more time, then stood on tiptoe to peer into it. 

Da’s clothing was boring. Most of it was white or black or gray. But Ma, she had wonderful clothes, clothes in bold colors, skirts that swished and swirled… and trousers, but her trousers were good colors, too. Trousers could be colors besides black and gray.

Jesper loved his da. Truly. Just not his choice of clothing.

He touched Ma’s scarves. So many colors…

He slid the drawer shut and went to the next one. A wide grin split his face. Ma’s scarves were nice, but Ma’s blouses… Jesper took one from the drawer, green as small leaves and patterned with black and white. It was so pretty. He barely thought as he pulled the blouse over his head.

The blouse slipped off one shoulder. He smoothed it down and flicked his fingers down the flare to the hem. The blouse hung past his knees, Ma was that tall. 

Jesper grinned down at himself. 

Then he started to run.

There were only four rooms: the kitchen, the sitting room, his parents’ bedroom, Jesper’s bedroom. He darted between them, aware that if he went outside, Da would see him and tell him to slow down and be careful. He ran so quickly, he just knew the tail of the blouse trailed behind him—even before he jumped off the kitchen chairs. Jesper liked that! He dragged the chairs apart from one another and jumped from one to the next, turning fast and making his Ma’s green blouse swish, the sleeves flapping well past his fingertips.

The idea barely flitted through his mind before Jesper leapt from the chair to the table. He landed shakily, crouching low to keep from falling. Then, laughing, he leapt again.

Table to chair.

Chair to chair. 

Chair to chair.

Chair to ground.

Ground to chair. (That one needed a step.)

Chair to table.

Table… table to ground?

Jesper grinned. He jumped.

He felt the jump going wrong almost immediately. He felt himself falling wrong, heard a tear and a clatter of a falling chair and then a thump as he hit the floor.

Jesper groaned. He rolled onto his back and touched his sore shoulder. It wasn’t bleeding. That was good. Everything felt hurt, but it felt in a way even a very young Jesper knew would heal. 

He sat up, pushing himself with his good arm. 

Only then did he see the blouse—or rather, the tear at the bottom of the right sleeve. Not just that: he had knocked over a chair and one of the legs was broken.

“Oh, no…”

Ma’s blouse!

The chair, yes, but Ma’s blouse!

Jesper felt dizzy all over again, not from his fall but from the thought of what his parents would say. They were going to be mad at him…

Footsteps outdoors told him someone was coming—Da was finished with the shed. Jesper didn’t want his father to find him hear. Honestly, he didn’t want to face his father at all, so he scrambled up and did the only thing he could think of: he ran. He bolted back to his own room, laid down on his belly, and wriggled under the bed. 

Lying there, Jesper squeezed his eyes shut, but they were already leaking tears. He tried to be still, like Da said. To stop crying.

Da told him to try counting backwards. 

Backwards counting was hard. He had to count forwards and hold onto where he left off.

10…

The door shut. Da was inside now, his footsteps steady as he walked in—then his footsteps stopped.

9…

“Jesper!”

9.

Da’s footsteps again, faster, so all Jesper needed to do he decided was to stay still and hidden and maybe Da would completely forget!

8…

“Jesper!”

7…

He arrived in Jesper bedroom then. Jesper glanced at his bare feet. No boots in the house. Then he looked away again. 

_Not here not here not here not here…_

The bed shifted as Colm settled onto it.

6…

“Come on out now, boy. It’s all right.”

Jesper hesitated as much as he could. Then he wriggled out just enough to peek at his da.

“I’m not angry. Are you okay?”

Jesper shook his head.

“Come on out.”

“Promise you’re not angry.”

“I’m not angry.”

“But _promise._ ”

“I promise.”

Jesper wriggled out and hopped onto the bed. 

Colm tilted Jesper’s head to get a better look, then wiped away some of the under-the-bed dust with his handkerchief. 

“That’s quite a bruise you’ve got, but I think you’ll survive it. What were you doing?”

“Playing…”

“Playing.” Colm pulled him close, kissing his head and rubbing his back. “You scared me, Jes! The kitchen all in disarray and you missing.”

“My arm hurts, Da,” Jesper said, suddenly tearful. It hurt _a lot._

“All right. Show me. Let’s take off Ma’s blouse.”

Colm helped Jesper pull the blouse off, taking cares with the tear. Then Jesper’s shirt, revealing a growing bruise covering from his shoulder to his elbow. 

“Oh, Jes…” Colm stood, lifting Jesper, who instinctively wrapped his arms around his father’s neck as Colm carried him to the sitting room. He brought Jesper cold, damp cloths for his bruised arm and head, wrapped him in a blanket, and started a fire. 

Normally Jesper helped his ma start the fire, but Da had a bit more time this late in the year, and he wasn’t as tired. So he started the fire, then sat beside Jesper on their old couch. It sagged and creaked, but it was theirs, and Jesper loved that couch.

“It’s all right,” Colm said.

“I wasn’t crying,” Jesper said.

“It’s all right if you were crying.”

Jesper clambered over and settled on his father’s lap.

“We’ll see about putting this right. Has your ma taught you your way around a needle yet?”

Jesper shook his head. 

“Maybe it’s time, you can help fix her blouse.”

He nodded. 

The pain in his shoulder receded slowly, but Jesper stayed put with his father for a while. His eyelids felt very heavy. He let them drift shut, not quite sleeping.

They were still there when the door opened once more.

“What’s happened?!”

“Jesper’s had a bit of a fall,” Colm said. “He’s all right now.”

Aditi joined them, the couch shifting beneath her, and traced a finger over the top of Jesper’s ear. 

“Is that true, little rabbit?”

Jesper nodded, opening one eye to look at his ma. “I fell.”

She kissed him. “I’m glad you survived.”

“I tore your blouse.”

“Don’t do that again, hm?”

“Yes, Ma.”

She shifted closer, slipping an arm around Colm and resting her free hand carefully on the un-bruised part of Jesper’s head. Jesper closed his eyes again. He barely recognized that he was falling only asleep. Only that he wasn’t hurting anymore, that the fire was warm and his parents were here.


	2. Matthias, Age 10

Matthias Helvar counted loudly: “Ten… nine…”

He stood in the center of the room with his hands pressed hard over his eyes, which were squeezed shut just in case. He tried to ignore the giggling and loud footsteps.

“Eight… you had better be hiding, Ingrid… seven…”

More giggling. More footsteps. He heard her start up the stairs, then hop off and rush across the room.

“Five… time’s almost up…”

“No, Matti, six! You forgot six!”

“I did not! I just didn’t say it out loud!”

“But you have to count, that’s the game!”

Matthias sighed. “Six,” he said, “five… four… three two… one ready or not here I come!” he cried, hands flying way from his face. 

He spotted her immediately. His little sister stood by the hooks where the family hung their coats. Pappa’s was missing, out with their father checking his trap lines. Ingrid hid behind the next-longest coat, but Mamma’s coat still left her fully visible below the chest, her bare feet pale against the floorboards. The hooks were beside the door, where a small wooden carving hung to honor Djel. 

Matthias had left his schoolbooks open on the kitchen table, promising Ingrid a game, just until dinner. 

“Ingrid?” Matthias asked, starting around the room. “Ingrid, where are you? Are you… here?!” He dropped to look under the table. No Ingrid!

“Are you… are you in the ash bucket?!” 

He tore the lid off and peered into the bucket, finding nothing but ashes.

“Are you—Mamma! Is Ingrid in your apron pocket?”

Mamma smiled, but Ingrid giggled so hard she squealed.

“I hear laughter,” Matthias announced. “I know where she is! She’s in the cracker tin!” He opened the tin and peered into it. There were some crackers, but no sister. “Ingrid?” he asked, shaking the tin. “I know you’re in there, Ingrid!”

Pealing laughter, she ran over and tugged on his shirt. “I’m here, Matti!”

“I found you!” 

“No, I told you!”

“No, you were hiding, and I know where you are, you’re here!” he announced, hugging her to him while she laughed. Ingrid was nearly always laughing, smiling and shaking her snow-blond plaits.

As he spun her, as much as he could spin someone just a foot shorter than himself, he heard a ri-i-ip and Ingrid shrieked.

“You broke my skirt, you big stupid!”

“Ingrid!” Mamma scolded.

“But Mamma—”

Mamma swatted her on the hip and Ingrid went quiet, pouting.

“Let me see.” Their mamma crouched low and examined the tear. “I’m more worried about that nail, Matti, fetch the hammer from your pappa’s box.”

Matthias knew where Pappa kept his tools. He hurried to retrieve the hammer from its place in the chest, as eager to use it as he was to help Mamma. Maybe a little more eager. But only a little. On the way back he touched the symbol on the door jamb to pay his respects to the Wellspring.

As he beat the nail back into place with a few deft whacks, Mamma ladled bowls of boiled leeks and potatoes. It was seasoned with salt and dill, and best of all, it was hot. Matthias wished they had herring or cod or even reindeer, though that was very much to wish.

“Do you know where your skirt comes from, Ingrid?” 

She shook her head.

“I know,” Matthias said. “It was Pappa’s and my shirts!”

“It was,” Mamma confirmed, “and before that shirt was Matthias’s it was Pappa’s too.”

“What will be it now?” Ingrid asked. She kicked her feet against the legs of her chair as she slurped her soup.

“I’ll see if Mrs. Ringstad needs napkins for the baby.”

Matthias went to check the pot and ladled up another bowl of soup. There was a big chunk of potato that kept eluding him, slipping multiple times from the spoon.

He returned to the table just as Mamma leaned over to wipe the worst of the mess from Ingrid’s face. Had he been so messy at her age? Matthias couldn’t remember, but he couldn’t imagine it.

“But what if Mrs. Ringstad doesn’t need napkins?” Ingrid pressed.

“Then we can use it for rags. You needed a new skirt, anyway.”

She bobbed in her seat, sloshing her soup. Mamma and Matthias both reached to steady her. 

“Really? A new skirt?”

“Really,” Mamma confirmed.

Ingrid nearly fell asleep at the table that night. Mamma took her to wash her face and clean her teeth—neither of which Ingrid would have done without someone to watch her—while Matthias tidied the dishes. He looked to be sure no one was watching before drinking the last gulps of broth straight from the pot, then swabbing up the rest with half a piece of bread.

He still had his homework to finish, and he set to studying as Mamma took Ingrid up to bed. Sometimes when they played, Ingrid liked to hide under the stairs, even though that left her exposed from the back, side, and through the gaps between each slatted stair. Matthias always took his time finding her. 

Tonight he had verses to copy to practice his penmanship—which he could admit was imperfect. He raised the wick in the lantern, a little more light for a little more precision. 

His mamma joined him after a while, bringing her sewing basket. There always seemed to be something that needed to be done, mended, created. She hummed as the needle flew through fabric.

Matthias waited for a break in her song to ask, “Do you think Pappa will be home soon?”

“Maybe a few more days,” she said. She peered at his work. “You’ve improved, Matti.”

“Do you think?” he asked, suddenly far prouder of his little page.

“Oh, yes. Wait until Pappa sees this!”

A blush heated his cheeks. The cold was not yet bitter this time of year, but he didn’t mind the extra warmth, anyway. 

Matthias was rubbing his eyes before he knew it. The hour was wearing and the light in the lantern dimmed, and he couldn’t stifle his yawns anymore. The letters had grown nearly impossible to manage. 

“I’m going to bed,” Mamma announced, “and so are you.”

Matthias did not argue. Upstairs, the two bedrooms were side by side, the one where his Mamma and Pappa shared their bed under the very quilt Mamma and her mamma stitched when she was only a few years older than Matthias. He wondered sometimes about his grandmother, but Mamma missed her, so he only asked Pappa, who had known his mother-in-law for several years before she passed. 

He tried to be quiet getting ready for bed, but a high voice said from the dark: “I dream about a bear!”

Matthias startled. “Ingrid, what are you doing in my bed?”

“I wanted to tell you about my dream. Matti, do you know what the bear said?”

“Did it say you have a bed of your own?”

“Matti, please?”

He sighed. She squirmed all the time in her sleep, but…

“What did the bear say?”

“Nothing, silly. Bears don’t talk!”


	3. Nina, Age 7

Nina didn’t mind chores. Not really. Not mostly, not most chores, but darning was the worst! Darning and sewing. Anything with a needle, really. And the pile of torn shirts, skirts, and trousers looked almost as tall as the church bell-tower. Maybe a little taller.

“You do it, Feodora,” Nina said.

She had been left before the sitting room by the fire with a needle and thread and a pile of mending, and useless Feodora who slumped in a corner of the chair with a smile-like stain on her face. Normally Nina liked that smile.

She sighed. She liked Feodora’s smile. She did not like doing the mending. It was only fair when there were floors to sweep and beds to make and someone had to do the work but couldn’t she do different work?

Someone was coming. Nina grabbed the mending again, so she looked very busy if someone looked in on her, but the footsteps only passed outside the door.

She pulled in a big breath and blew it out.

This work was so dull!

Nina sighed.

“Let’s go!” She hopped off the chair, dropping the mending, then grabbed Feodora by the hand. The rag doll flopped against her thigh. Nina knew she should stay in the room… so she didn’t leave! She went and closed herself up in the closet. It was a good one, the kind that wouldn’t open without the knob turned—Nina new that from the time she went exploring around and got stuck, but it was okay now, because she knew the way out.

Inside the closet, Nina squirmed and wriggled. It was dark. Dark was an excellent beginning of things. Dark was where caves started, where all sorts of adventures could happen.

It was small, too. It was so small, she could walk up the walls!

Nina braced her back against the door and climbed her feet up the back wall: “One… two… three…” Until her feet were well above her head and her patched trousers fell back to her knees. Only then did she realize she wasn’t sure how to get down! Pressing against the door, she started back: “Six-five-four-three-two-one!”

Of course she tried again. What was the point in having her feet on the ground if not to try again?!

On her fourth try, she made it up to ten steps. She was at such an angle her bottom barely touched the floor, most of her weight instead on her back against the door. Her muscles strained deliciously. Even though Nina knew she was only a little ways up, she felt like she was flying!

She knew she should come down, count the steps down from ten… but what if she could do one more? What I she could fly even higher? Not very far, only one more step… or maybe two… or…

And then the world burst open.

Suddenly, Nina was falling and flooded with light. She hit the floor hard and rolled, landing on her back with her shirt over her face. 

She pulled her shirt down. There, standing over Nina, was a sturdy woman with her dark hair wound in a severe bun.

Nina grinned. “Tetya Polina, good afternoon!”

Tetya Polina raised her eyebrows. Then she offered both hands. Nina gripped them and let Polina help her to her feet. 

“What are you doing hiding in there, little Nina, hmm?”

“I was not hiding! I… was… I was trapped, Tetya! Me and Feodora, we were trapped in a very dark cave!”

“Is that so?” asked Tetya Polina, feeling the back of Nina’s head for lumps. She had not hit her head, but why would she say that when she could continue explaining that she and Feodora had been on an adventure?

“There were dragons in the cave! Three of them, big ones, too, bigger than the Grand Palace in Os Alta! And they could breathe fire!”

“Where is Feodora now?”

“Umm…”

Nina patted her pockets. Finding no trace, she ran back to the closet and searched there. Feodora was on the floor, just to the side of the door.

“Here!” Nina announced, holding the doll over her head.

“Very good. Maybe we can find you somewhere else for the afternoon?”

“That would be lovely, Tetya.”

“Come along.” 

Nina was not terribly surprised when she realized they were heading for the kitchen, practically skipping her way ahead of Tetya Polina. It smelled like boiled cabbage, but that didn’t necessarily mean boiled cabbage for dinner because the kitchen always smelled like boiled cabbage. 

“Baba Inessa!” Nina called. 

The old woman smiled at her. 

“Hello, Ninyushka! We’ll look after her, Polina.” 

“Thank you. Be good, Nina.”

“I’m always good!” Nina objected, grinning so wide she felt the on the gap where one of her teeth was missing.

The women laughed. Tetya Polina patted Nina’s hair once more before going on her way without even asking if there was a spare bit of bread or maybe even a cookie! 

“Hop up here,” Baba Inessa said, pulling out a stool. 

Nina clambered up, Feodora in her hand. She loved the kitchen. It was where all sorts of wonderful food came from, and she loved watching the separate pieces be changed and mixed and made into delicious things. It was always warm here, too. Best of all, though, everyone was nice. It was just a happy place. 

“May I have—”

Baba Inessa offered her a heel of bread. “Of course.”

Nina popped the edge into her mouth. It was a day old or maybe two, good to chew with a hint of… was that rosemary? She thought it was.

“Come, little Nina,” said Baba Inessa. 

She had placed Nina close to the board where she was turning out a loaf of bread. Her hands disappeared into it and came away spotted with dough; Nina watched, knowing it would take a few minutes of kneading and a little more flour, and that would turn from sticky dough into a tidy pre-loaf. 

“Tell us the news.”


	4. Kaz, Age 9

“I’m sorry, Jordie,” Kaz said. He sat beside his brother on the edge of their bed—a room with two would have cost more, and if Kaz was completely honest, he felt a little better when he could cuddle up to his big brother at night. Ketterdam was big and filled with strange sounds at all hours. He liked it when he was awake. When he tried to sleep, he missed the rustling wind and even the squirrels from back home.

Jordie held a pair of trousers across his lap, loosening the stitches on the back pocket, while Kaz held a handkerchief to his knee. He hadn’t meant to fall—the Ketterdam streets were cobbled and busy, and there were so many new sights for the nine-year-old. When he let go of Jordie’s hand, Kaz had tripped and torn open the knee of his trousers.

The biggest surprise hadn’t been the pain. Kaz had fallen down plenty of times, sometimes out of trees. The surprise was all the people who passed without offering to help him up. Back in the village, most anyone would have offered, except people like Mister and Missus Pieterse who were very old but at least would have asked if he was all right, or Mister Gorter who was generally a bit of pricklypuss. Here in Ketterdam no one even stopped, though one man shoved Kaz in the side with his shin for being in the way.

There were many wonderful things in Ketterdam, but possibly a lot of not very nice people.

“It’s okay,” Jordie said.

They didn’t have much to spare, so he was cutting loose the backside pocket of his own trousers to patch Kaz’s knee. None of Kaz’s trousers had a backside pocket.

Kaz kicked his heels despondently against the bed. It was hard to remember all the good and exciting things in the city with torn trousers… like quince candy and hot chocolate and pastries with almond paste—the thoughts cheered him a little. But only a little.

“Hey.” Jordie set aside the trousers he had been carefully mangling and wrapped an arm around Kaz’s shoulders. “This city might be winning today, but we’ll win in the end. What’s a bunch of bricks against a couple of Rietvelds?”

Kaz smiled. He nudged his shoulder against Jordie and Jordie nudged back. 

“Maybe our success is already here.”

“It’s not,” Kaz said.

“How do you know?”

He knew because their rented room didn’t offer much in the way of space for secrets.

“I don’t see it.”

“Well,” Jordie reasoned, “maybe it’s hiding under the bed! Or up your sleeves, like that magician you liked.”

Kaz had liked the magician. He made cards and coins appear out of nowhere and disappear back to it… Kaz couldn’t figure out how he did any of it, but he would!

“There you go. You’re already smiling. Things are getting better, Kaz. Just like your trousers.”

“You’re making those better!”

“Exactly!”

Kaz’s spirits bounced back after that. Besides, who cared about a pair of trousers? And they had already been patched to begin with!

“How’s your knee?”

Kaz lifted the handkerchief. “The bleeding stopped,” he announced. 

“See? Better and better.”

That night he tossed and turned while Jordie lay on his side, traveling through the last quarter of one of his new books. Kaz had asked what it was about, but Jordie said it wasn’t a book for little kids. Kaz had asked if that meant kissing and Jordie only laughed, and maybe this wasn’t a book for little kids, but maybe big kids could be kind of dumb sometimes. Like how Jordie got all goofy and moon-eyed over the girls sometimes. Real dumb if you asked Kaz. 

“Jordie?” Kaz asked. 

He could be real dumb about girls, but he knew plenty of other things.

“Yeah?”

“You think our success is still hiding under the bed?”

Jordie chuckled. “It could be.”

“When will it come out?” Kaz asked, the words blurring with sleep. He wanted to sleep, but he couldn’t, not until he had an answer. 

“I don’t know, Kazzie. Maybe while we sleep.”

“Can we count it out?”

Jordie was chuckling again, but Kaz was too tired to think much of that.

“Sure we can, little brother. Ten… nine…”

Kaz leapt in, “Eightsevensixfivefourthreetwoone TIME’S OUT ALL’S IN!” he cried, almost expecting to see a specter of success pop out from beneath the bed. For a few seconds, Kaz barely breathed, looking hopefully for any sign… but it was the same room, with his same brother reading the same book.

“Maybe tomorrow,” Jordie said.

“Can we count it out?”

“We can try again tomorrow. We’re going to find it one of these days!”


	5. Wylan, Age 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you know music, you'll recognize that the scales aren't the same as ours. I took some liberties to make it fit the prompt!

“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten…”

Each word had a sound to it, a sound that slipped just a little higher than the one before, steady and even like a staircase, like the canalside stairs—though there were twelve of those—the notes sang in the dusky red of the brick steps, in the scent of sweet woodruff. They were wonderful and perfect and pattered like summer rain on his freckles.

“Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one.”

This time the words fell. Coming down, they were the lapping waters of the canal and the flaky metal rail under his palm.

“Are you ready to try, Wylan?”

Wylan chewed his thumb. He hadn’t been watching how she teased the sounds from the keyboard. He had been listening to the place they felt like.

Marya gently moved his hand away from his mouth. “Don’t bite.”

She sat beside him on the piano bench, lit with sunlight through the window. Wylan was five years old, too small to understand how little he knew of the world, but big enough that he knew the numbers all the way to a hundred (he was very good with numbers), which fork to use for the fish course, and that his mama was the most beautiful woman in the world. She looked like a saint in sunshine.

“Will you show me one more time?”

“Of course. Watch.”

She returned her hand to the piano. Wylan focused this time.

“One…” She struck a key. “Two… remember, ten keys, each next to the other.”

Wylan stuck out one chubby finger and plunked one of the keys, then the next, each key with the same finger. 

“Good,” Marya said, “that’s good. Now, remember,” she placed a hand gently against his back, “we sit up extra-straight at the piano.”

Wylan sat up extra-straight.

“And again.”

He plunked the keys again.

“Sing it with me. One… two… three…”

Wylan started over: “One, two, three…” All the way up to ten. His voice merged with Marya’s, climbing up the canalside stairs. 

“Good!”

Wylan grinned and tossed his hands up. He didn’t expect to hear a sharp rending sound as his sleeve tore. He felt for the hole.

“Let me see.” 

He moaned as Marya examined the tear. He was worried. The shirt wasn’t supposed to tear, shirts were supposed to stay in one piece! This was wrong, wrong, wrong…

Wrong, wrong, three, four, five, six—

“It’s okay. It’s just a little rip, you know why?”

Wylan shook his head. 

“Because you’re getting so big. Let’s get you another shirt.”

Wylan’s bedroom was upstairs from the music room, up—“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten! One, two, three, four, five…” He stopped at the second-to-last step. Then he hopped back: “Nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, on!” And up: “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten!” to the scent of sweet woodruff. He smiled up at Marya.

She ruffled his hair.

In the bedroom, Marya helped Wylan out of the torn shirt and into a clean one, undoing the buttons he fixed crookedly.

“There.”

“Mama? I think at night there’s a monster under my bed.”

“There’s no monsters under your bed. Look.” Marya peered under the bed. “No monsters.”

“It’s not at night now. He only lives there sometimes.”

“Oh, I see. Well… since he’s not here right now, what would you say to tea and cookies in the garden?”

Marya didn’t have much more time with her son that afternoon, just another half hour to take their tea and cookies, while Wylan smiled at the stairs that sounded like ten notes played on the piano and sung by his mother. 

His care was then handed over to his nanny then. Hilde had looked after him for two years, longer than Wylan’s short memory stretched, and she wasn’t his mama, but she was very nice and she taught him a bit of her native Fjerdan. 

Hilde saw Wylan through the end of his day. 

It wasn’t an unpleasant day. There was coloring and dinner and a warm bath, and as often happened, he forgot all about the monster who lived under his bed until night came again. Wylan changed into his pajamas and cleaned his teeth and tried not to look at the shadowy space beneath the bed. 

He hesitated in the doorway. The shadowy place seemed awfully deep tonight. Anything might be lurking there… anything with teeth… or claws… or…

With a gasp, Wylan bolted forward, hopping onto the bed and scrambling under the covers as quickly as he could. Just one more day of outrunning the monster. 

Probably.

He pulled the covers up over his head. The monster couldn’t get him. Everyone knew monsters couldn’t get past the covers. Even when they were very angry. Even—

The covers drew away from him. 

Wylan yelped. The monster!

“Shh.”

It wasn’t a monster.

Marya Van Eck stroked her son’s curls, soothing him. 

“It’s okay.” She sat beside him on the bed. Her hair was down, long and wonderful, and he wanted to reach for a lock but even more he wanted to stay here and cuddle against her. “Were you thinking about the monster?”

Wylan nodded. 

“Do you want me to check if he’s there?”

He nodded again.

“Okay.”

Marya slipped off the bed.

“Mama, wait!”

But she had already crouched to peer under the bed. Wylan didn’t breathe. 

“No monsters,” Marya reported. “It doesn’t look like there’s ever been a monster down here. I can’t see any monster food or monster hair.” Tucking the covers around Wylan, she said, “You’re safe in here, my little licorice drop.”

“Is Hilde coming?”

“No, Hilde’s gone home early. I’m tucking you in tonight, just you and me.”

Wylan beamed. He didn’t fully understand what was happening, only that his mama was here, and there was no monster. Not now, anyway.

“Will you sing to me?”

“Of course I will.” She kissed his forehead. “What would you like?”

“The numbers. From today.”

“The numbers—the scale? Wouldn’t you like a proper song?”

Wylan shook his head. “I like the numbers.”

“Okay. Okay. One, two, three, four…”

He closed his eyes. As she sang, the sounds floated Wylan back to the dusky red stairs by the canal, to that afternoon’s sunshine and cookies and the scent of sweet woodruff. She petted his hair while she sang him down the steps, the rail flaking under his palm. She sang him in laps, down to the canal and up into the garden, until he lost track of the numbers.

The last thing he recognized was the covers resettling around him before he left the stairs and the bedroom and fell into sleep.


End file.
